


Neither paradise nor love unpaged

by zempasuchil



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-02
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zempasuchil/pseuds/zempasuchil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Golden Age Terebinthia makes a visit of state, and Susan reaches for a new mythology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for venilia in the 2008 Narnia Fic Exchange. Title from "Aurora" by Federico García Lorca.

  
“He calls me The Gentle. I wouldn’t have thought those names would be known so far into the Eastern Sea. We don’t use them in other countries.”

“Do you suppose he’s been asking around about you?” Lucy chirps, gathering the blanket from the bed into her arms. Light streams through the open window. Spring is in Narnia, and everyone is intent on bringing every ray into the castle, every fresh breeze and smell of flowers. Susan sits on a cushion in a patch of sun, examining an increasingly more wrinkled piece of parchment. The ink has bled through to the other side in places, and Lucy wonders if she could read it backwards, or if it spells some coded message meant for Susan’s eyes only.

“He might know from the selkies. They’re our ambassadors to Terebinthia, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Siluwya and Merum,” says Edmund, leaning in the doorway. “At least I think those are their names. It sounds different every time I speak to them.”

“Help me air this, won’t you, Ed?”

He sighs and takes the corners she hands him. “Why are you so suddenly fixated on cleaning?”

“I’m not, it’s Mrs. Beaver, she’s so worried about the state of Cair Paravel and what the Terebinthians will think of our housekeeping. The more we clean, the less she’ll be on about it, taxing herself and fretting Mr. Beaver.”

Susan barely hears this exchange, preoccupied with rereading the letter. She knows that she’s been growing older, but the thought of marriage had never entered her head until the letter from the Terebinthian King came. What was proclaimed a formal visit of state had an underlying driving force, hidden beneath the surface of the flowery language of the court – this was true in every case, Susan was beginning to realize. She hoped for some clue to what sort of man this was – if he seriously intended to woo her, who he expected to meet when he arrived. Queen Susan the Gentle, apparently. She sighs and rubs her temples.

“I hope he’s handsome,” Lucy says.

“He’s probably old.”

“Not that old,” said Edmund. “The upper end of thirty at the most. I couldn’t get a clear answer from the selkies, since they don’t have a firm grasp on how humans seem to age.”

“He’s old for Susan!”

Susan smiles and shakes her head. “Not for Kings and Queens. And who said I was going to accept his offer anyway? I’ve not yet met him and you’re playing matchmaker.”

Lucy huffs as she and Edmund shake out the comforter by the window, sending up a spray of dust motes that drift in and out of the sunlight.

“It’s a visit of state, first and foremost,” says Edmund. “Then we’ll worry about his intentions towards Susan.”

“Marriage is a matter of state, King Edmund.” Peter appears in the doorway with a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. “Even a romantic gesture has a political nature when you’re the ruler of a country. King Ardamin was raised in it, unlike us. We’re going to have to be on our toes.”

“And here I thought this was a political gesture with a romantic nature,” says Susan, standing. “Are those for me?”

“They’re just a schedule of accommodations for the delegation, and a new map that’s just been made of our border with Archenland. It’s rather large.”

“They’re both rather large countries, Peter.”

“What? Oh, sorry, I meant the delegation. Are you still poring over that letter?”

“Looking for clues.” Peter moves beside her and adjusts her wrist, angling the letter so he can see it better. He frowns. “Don’t worry so much, Peter. All the arrangements are in order. There will be enough food and entertainment, we’ll meet with the King, we’ll share a few dances, and then they will all go home.”

Peter says, “That’s not exactly it.”

Susan kisses his cheek, removes her hand, and picks up a cushion to fluff it.

-

The slap of the waves on the boats that bring them in sounds like a lazy greeting applause. Gulls call softly as they wheel far above in the cliffs, and the Terebinthians who have come ashore are feeling the ground beneath their feet, looking about, but mostly staring at the Narnian welcome party. The Kings and Queens are there, as is Tumnus, two cheetahs, and the centaur Oreius.

“What is it?” Lucy whispers in Edmund’s ear while they are still out of range. “Do we look strange? Are our clothes on backwards?”

“I think it must be Tumnus and Oreius,” Edmund murmurs, barely moving his lips. “They might not have fauns or centaurs in Terebinthia.”

“I wonder!” Lucy says. But the party is approaching and she quiets as their herald announces them.

“His Royal Majesty the King of Terebinthia, Ardamin the Eighth, Sovereign of the Scattered Isles.” A broad-shouldered man with a golden crown nested in his brown curly hair steps forward from the boat that has been pulled ashore. His clothing is practical for seagoing, but fabric is rich and trimmed with gold; the make and fit of his clothing is as fine as anything Narnia has ever seen. He is still too far off for Susan to see for certain, but he looks to be in his mid thirties, as Edmund had guessed. At the Terebinthian King’s side are other men, dressed in much the same way while clearly subordinate to the King’s presence of quiet command. One of them looks much like him, but younger; he wears a silver crown on a darker head. Unlike his serious companions, he has the hint of a smile on his face as he gazes up at their hosts, and past them at Cair Paravel, the stone face almost golden in the afternoon sun.

“His Royal Highness Prince Talmin, Duke of Everun,” the herald continues, as more step from the boat. “His Grace the Duke of Kirna. Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Inshem. Lord Berwyn of Meranth.” The titles go on as more boats land, and more men and a few women line up in the sand. Susan tries to pay attention to every name but she knows she won’t be able to. She already knows those she must remember from reading the selkies’ reports.

She senses Peter straightening beside her as Tumnus calls out, “The High King Peter, Queen Susan, King Edmund, and Queen Lucy of Narnia extend the hand of friendship to their cousins from Terebinthia, and bid you welcome to their land.” The Terebinthians bow at this, and the Kings and Queens of Narnia bow in response.

“We hope you will find rest in our palace, King Ardamin. My royal siblings and I would be honored by the presence of you and your company this evening. There shall be a feast to celebrate your arrival,” Peter says in a voice whose strength belies his years as King.

The King of Terebinthia inclines his head. “We accept your gracious invitation.”

-

Edmund, who doesn’t much like parties, is placed between the old Duke, who is more interested in speaking to Peter than to him, and a Duchess who speaks little but mostly to her husband on her other side. It leaves him in a good place to eavesdrop, a vice he’s been prone to since arriving in Narnia. Lucy became the chattier of the younger siblings, and he grew silent and more pensive. He is not sure if it was for the best.

Right now, for example, he can tell that she is dominating the conversation with the Prince. The topic doesn’t matter; he can see she is enamored of him and wants to share every part of her that might draw him in. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright, and her eyes are either on his or looking down coyly at her plate. The Prince is receptive at first, and listens generously to her requests, but soon Susan’s questions of Terebinthia draw his attention.

Susan, Edmund observes, is in every sense the font of gracious company. Peter is regal, but a little distant tonight. Susan inclines her body slightly toward the King when he speaks, smiles a little at his words and laughs lightly at his smile. She asks questions and listens to his quotations of Terebinthian verse as though she were drinking deeply. Her questions provoke discussion among the visitors, who reveal a passion for history and legend that Edmund would not have guessed. And as the Prince is drawn into the conversation, Edmund sees Susan incline in his direction as well. Prince Talmin hears her questions of Terebinthian culture and his eyes brighten. Gradually he turns from Lucy and adds more to the Terebinthians’ stories, and the sisters listen, rapt. Edmund sees Susan’s eyes brighten at his description of Terebinthia’s rainbow of sea stars, her smile widen at the revelation of his fondness for archery, the heliotropic turn of her body toward his as he spoke of his journeys among the Eastern and Southern islands.

Edmund sighs inwardly. What trouble these charming Terebinthians will bring.

-

Peter is pleased with the feast, as pleased as he can be. The King at his side is polite, diplomatic enough so that if Peter didn’t already know his intentions, he would not notice how he had only eyes for Susan. _And who am I to blame him?_ Peter thinks. She looks radiant. He had already known, or so he thought, that she was growing into a woman. It is not until now, however, that he sees how she fills those spaces in fully, every movement elegant. Next to the Terebinthian women, she is a Venus de Milo among statues. She is Narnia beside every England.

Susan is quiet, compared to Lucy. She spends the meal at the Prince’s elbow, asking him what sort of animals Terebinthia has, whether they talk or not, if they’ve ever seen a sea serpent or sirens that far out in the ocean. Prince Talmin answers graciously, revealing himself to be a competent woodsman and well-versed in sea lore.

“Our sailors who travel east tell tales of porpoises with women’s voices that lead the lost ships home,” he said, taking a bite of tart and pausing. “There’s one story of a ship that was blown off course to waters far south where the skies are hot and cloudless, where every breeze dies and the sails go slack for days and weeks. Finally one of the sailors saw an albatross in the distance, and they were all cheered for an albatross is a sign of fortune, of land. It hovered behind the boat, which was being rowed at a snail’s pace, for days. Soon some of the sailors began to talk of an omen or curse, but the first who spotted it still believed. One day when the fresh water was nearly down to the bottom, the first mate, sick with hunger and sun, went up on deck and fit an arrow to his bow. He pointed it at the albatross and drew to shoot. But the sailor who first saw the bird and held hope and mercy in his heart cried out and knocked the bow from the first mate’s hands. ‘Why would you murder one of the sea’s most noble creatures?’ he asked. ‘We are at Tethys’ mercy. Would you have us evoke her wrath?’

“That night, the sailor was on watch with his spyglass, looking for a sign of cloud or land. Suddenly he heard the albatross cry, and he looked aft. It dove as though to dash itself on the deck, and the sailor’s heart stopped. At the last minute, it spread its enormous wings to slow itself, landing on strange feet, and became a woman wearing a cape of feathers.” Lucy lets out a involuntary gasp; Susan is rapt. Even Edmund leans forward slightly from across the table.

“She was taller than any woman the sailor had ever seen. Her skin and hair were white; her eyes and brows were dark and striking. ‘You have saved my life today,’ she said to him in a clear, piercing voice. ‘For that, you may ask of me anything you desire.’ The sailor bowed and said, ‘Lady, the only wish I might have is that my companions and I may return home alive.’

“’You might have asked for all the riches of the sea, or command of a great fleet, or my very hand in marriage,’ said she.

“’Nay,’ the sailor said, ‘I am but a humble man who is sick for his island home. If it is not within your power to send us home to Terebinthia, I ask nothing of you.’ The albatross woman said, ‘You are true of spirit, son of Adam. Your roots will draw you home.’ The sailor was puzzled, but before he could ask what she meant, she took wing in the shape of an albatross and flew away. At the midnight hour he traded his shift, and slept deeply through the night, dreaming strange dreams of wings wrapped around him, the scent of earth, the sound of the sea washing the shore. As the sun rose, the lookout cried, ‘Land! Land!’ They all rushed to the ship’s side, and there she was: the green isle of Terebinthia, like a jewel rising out of the sea.

“From that day on, any act against an albatross has been nearly criminal among the fishing peoples of the coast.”

“Is that true?” Lucy asks. “Do they worship the bird?”

“No,” the King says. “It is a commonly known tale, little more. But to make an enemy of the sea is unwise. Terebinthia would perish if it destroyed the sea’s benevolence; we would be made well and truly an island, instead of a rich center for merchants’ trade from the islands of the East, Calormen, and Archenland. The fine steel wares our smithies produce may be of interest to the Narnian Kings; my Queens, have you seen the fabrics from the South embroidered by Terebinthian women?”

“No, King Ardamin,” Susan says, “we have not traveled out of Narnia since the beginning of our reign. We have heard, though, tales of Calormen silks and the Terebinthian steel. Long I have thought of journeying south to see these lands of riches, especially in Narnia’s cold winter.”

“To receive your visit would delight us,” the King says, lifting Susan’s hand to kiss it. His beard feels strange on her skin. “It would please us well to see Narnian citizens and goods one day in our markets.”

“It would please us as well,” said Peter. “I am sure that time may soon come. Our people are industrious; our land is in her spring, after a very long winter.”

-

Susan has almost escaped into the kitchen when Peter finds her in a narrow corridor off the throne room. The dinner has finished; the guests are well-wined, and the fauns’ music has set some to dancing and some to sleeping. Susan has already danced with Peter once, the King twice, Prince Talmin once. Her eyelids are dragged down by the low flickering lights and the low babble of conversation. When Lucy and the Prince stand up to dance, she takes the opportunity to excuse herself. She never realized how tiring politeness could be.

“There you are,” he says, catching her elbow gently and taking her cup from her, setting it in a nook by a candelabrum. “You look beautiful.” His eyes are warm and soft in the small light.

Susan’s shoulders relax; she hadn’t even realized she was tense. “Oh Peter,” she sighs, leaning on his proffered arm, “you don’t know how worrying this is. How lovely their fashions are! How beautiful these women! I spend my days in bare feet, keeping up a castle. They would think us barbarians if they knew Lucy and I helped prepare this feast. How am I to know that even if they look at me and smile, they’re not making fun?”

Peter cups her elbows now, gently, and pulls her close. “How could the ever laugh at you?” he says fervently. “They wouldn’t think of it. I see them listen to you seriously, and the green of your gown brings out your eyes. I’ve even heard one of the ladies admiring your embroidery on Lucy’s dress. You have everyone’s eye, the King’s eye for certain.” He tries to ignore the strange feeling uncurling in his chest with these words. He doesn’t want to think about Susan being an object in any eye, her body held in the mind and contemplated in its series of gentle curves, held against any body but his.

Her breath is hot through his tunic, mouth pressed against his shoulder. “I don’t really want his eye, you know,” she says, lifting her head.

Peter lets her go with a mischievous smile, “Is that so?” Picking up their glasses again, he hands Susan hers. She sets it down again. It’s Tumnus’ favorite, so it’s a little strong for her taste, but the Terebinthians seem to like it well enough.

“You know how I feel. He’s so _old_.”

“He’s a worldly man. Did you notice how many times he spoke of Terebinthia as a cultural crossroads? I imagine it would be like living in Byzantium or Italy in the Renaissance.”

“If I didn’t know any better I wouldn’t be able to tell if you were making fun or trying to convince me to consider his offer.”

Peter takes a sip from his glass. “You do know me. But if it’s his age you dislike, I saw a certain prince who particularly enjoyed your presence tonight. Would you take his eyes instead?”

Susan hopes her cheeks are already pink from the wine, so he can’t see her blush in the dim light.  
“That’s hardly the point. And he had Lucy hanging on his every word all night, if you hadn’t noticed. We must talk to her; she’s far too young for this.”

He arches a brow. “You didn’t answer my question, you know.”

Susan opens her mouth to protest when Lucy comes to take her free hand. “There you are! Do you remember this song from midwinter? Come dance, it’s my favorite!” Before she can say anything, she is pulled away into the whirl of dancers. Peter leans against the wall and sips long at his wine.

-

The next day is a bright day, and they all rise late from the previous night’s revelry. The Kings and Queens of Narnia invite their guests to join them in wandering among the scattered trees at the edge of the wood and enjoying the newly-planted orchard. Susan and the King walk together and talk for a while, but when Peter starts talking to him about the walls of Cair Paravel, and the plans for building towns, Susan excuses herself and goes to stand in the shade of the trees.

“Do you find the sun strong?” a voice asks, and she looks up to see Prince Talmin approaching.

“No, not yet. But I would rather stand under trees than look at the walls of a castle.”

“What are they?” he asks, looking up into the branches. She enjoys the way the light and shadows play over his face in the shade.

“This is apple,” she says. “Those in the next row over are cherry, and we also planted some plum trees. Do you not have these in Terebinthia?”

He talks to her of the Terebinthian flora, and she listens, picturing in her mind’s eye the palms with fronds like wings, pink-orange flowers the size of her hand with long yellow stamens, the towering purple-blossomed trees that lean over the square houses, painted white against the bluegreen sea. Their talk turns to gardens, and he speaks of enormous sunny marigolds, and the royal collection of imported orchids in their imported glass greenhouses. As Peter and the King move on from the walls of Cair Paravel, they follow, rejoining them. Edmund and Lucy are trailing behind but catch up eventually. They had been introducing some Terebinthian lords and ladies to Prettyfoot’s pack, a pack of hounds that frequently accompanied the Kings and Queens on their hunts. They both have smudges of dirt on their shoulders from the pack’s enthusiastic greetings, and Susan shakes her head but smiles still, knowing her brother and sister couldn’t care less.

The party wanders back slowly and retires to the outdoor courtyard, lingering in conversation.

“I admit I am unfamiliar with the Narnian style of combat,” the lord Berwyn says, eyeing the sword at Edmund’s side.

“It’s an older art than I know,” says Peter. “Narnian centaurs could tell you, or perhaps King Edmund, who has been learning of the tradition from our General Oreius.”

“I really know very little,” Edmund says. “Most of my knowledge is practical. I am still young compared to long years of my teacher.”

The group of Terebinthians laughs. “Your Majesty, forgive me if I speak not in my place, but you are still young compared to our years. Are you trained primarily in the sword, then?”

“I also practice archery, but Queen Susan far surpasses my skill in that area.”

“Have you studied the pole arm?”

“I have not.”

“A shame,” the old Duke says, shaking his head. “Our soldiers are trained with them from the start. Our knights’ skill with the glaive has given them renown as warriors across all lands.”

“I had heard of the spears of Terebinthia,” Peter says. “Let us see, then, the skill of your knights. I would like to look up on the arts of another land; perhaps we can learn from each other.”

The King whispers to a man at his side, who nods and walks away. Soon enough he returns with a knight and his squire. The squire bears his master’s weapon, a long pole with a single-edged eighteen-inch blade affixed to the end.

“I would like to see the sharpness of that steel,” Peter murmurs to Edmund.

“But not too closely,” Edmund says.

The knight takes the glaive and begins a whirling violent dance. The steps are simple, but the movement of his pole is so quick sometimes that it forms a blur, the steel flashing blue in the sun. For a minute he continues, and finishes with a sudden stop of a crescent cut, the blade at mid-waist. The onlookers applaud. Edmund is certainly impressed.

“That was skillfully done,” he says. “Tell me, do Terebinthian knights use the sword?”

The King and Prince turn to look at him coolly. “Our training may be broad but it is not limited. We are proficient in the sword as well, though to rely on it is considered weakness.” the Prince says. Peter’s lips are in a thin line and he unconsciously rests his hand on his scabbard.

“Perhaps His Majesty would like to match his skill against one of our own,” suggests King Ardamin. “How many years training have you?”

“But four,” Edmund says.

“Sir Anselm, I believe his Majesty and your squire would be fairly matched. Unless you would rather not, King Edmund.”

Edmund looks like he would very much like to refuse. At his shoulder, Lucy whispers “Ed, no –” before Susan stops her with a hard hand around her upper arm. Peter says, “We would not wish to slight our guests in any way, and have no qualms about friendly competition. However, I cannot speak for my brother directly. What say you, King Edmund?”

Edmund shoulders are square and he stands firmly, nods.

-

“Combatants, stand ready.”

They stand there, a few feet apart, feet planted in broad stances. The sun is to Edmund’s left, the squire’s right. They have sword and shield, but wear no armor. This will only be a match to disarm. The squire is a little taller than Edmund, but he looks younger to Edmund’s eye, and maybe less broad in the shoulders.

“On the count of three, honor your knight-master: one.”

Edmund wipes his sleeve across his forehead.

“Two.”

The Terebinthian slightly broadens his stance.

“Three.”

They circle, initially, to get an idea of the others’ style of movement. Edmund makes the first move to test his opponent’s defense, a quick thrust that is knocked away, and he retreats. But soon enough Edmund realizes that the sun is in his eyes, and that’s when the squire strikes. It is a simple enough blow to block, but if he had moved much more quickly Edmund doesn’t think he would have been able to react in time. As it were, he knows the danger now. That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

When Edmund sees his own shadow directly before him, he moves, taking advantage as the squire did, and this time he follows up on his blow. Still, though, after a few passes they retreat again.

Edmund has no desire to be in this situation, which makes him impatient, and causes him to make his first mistake. He rushes in before the sun is fully in his eyes, hoping to stall his disadvantage. But he misjudges the reach of his opponent’s sword and when he briefly leaves his defense open to strike, the squire seizes his opportunity and opens a long, shallow cut diagonally across Edmund’s abdomen before the King can leap back in time. He hisses at the initial burning sensation, and he hears as though distant some murmurs in the crowd.

The next blow is Edmund’s, and it glances off the squire’s shield, opening a cut on his thigh. They strike at each other, steel ringing on steel, and Edmund feels his arms begin to ache. He strikes repeatedly and the squire repels them all, slightly slower each time. It seems that the Terebinthian is the quicker to tire, and Edmund takes his opportunity to push his arms a little faster. Instead of retreating further, however, the squire blocks and shoves upward, and Edmund stumbles back.

Now he is on the defense, and he sees that the squire’s fatigue must have been a ruse, for he is striking more quickly now than he blocking. They press hilt to hilt, and Edmund feels the full weight of the squire’s extra two inches as their swords press hard against each other.

He is about to break and duck to cut under, but as soon as he takes a deep breath, he feels his right leg kicked out from under him at the same time that the squire shoves down with his sword.  
His ankle twists under him and he lands on it in a position that feels nearly broken. He yells wordlessly in pain and frustration. Stupid of him, to get impatient now, he should know –

Someone screams; Edmund has no time to think. Years of intermittent fighting against insurgents, dark creatures of Narnia hiding out in the depths of the forest, have given him the instincts he needs to quickly throw himself to the right and hit the ground in a roll as he hears the clash of steel on the stones where he was sitting. As he rolls, though, the squire hooks his shield behind Edmund’s, wrenching his arm away from his body and twisting it back. Edmund cries out at the blinding pain. His forearm feels broken.

He extracts it from the shield straps and screams again, but now his arm is free and he holds it close to his torso. He looks up just in time to roll away again as the squire aims a blow at his head. The sword hits the ground again, and Edmund lashes out with his foot while the Terebinthian is offset by his miss. He falls to the ground, and Edmund pushes himself to one knee, picks up his sword, and has it swinging to point at the squire’s neck before he realizes there is another sword already there.

“You have made an attempt on my brother’s life.” Peter’s voice is nearly a snarl, and his face is a sight that shakes even Edmund. “Even in the context of a duel you have overstepped the boundaries of civil conduct.”

“Peter,” Edmund croaks.

“I would demand satisfaction from you for your offense against our royal family.”

“Peter,” he says, louder now, his pain fully audible. His brother’s eyes flicker up, then back down to focus on the squire’s fearful face. “Peter, I’m plenty satisfied, please let it go.”

“This young man nearly killed you!”

“He isn’t your subject,” he hisses. “The Terebinthian King will deal with him.”

Lucy is suddenly on him. Susan must have lost hold of her, Edmund thinks, but he is glad to have her tender arms around his waist, no matter how much it hurts his wound.

“Peter, you listen to him. He needs medical attention, so let your pride go just this once.”

Peter steps back and pauses for a second before sheathing his sword and joining Lucy at Edmund’s side, gazing at him with fearful eyes, a face full of concern.

King Ardamin approaches. Lucy glances at him briefly before turning back to Edmund, furious and attentive. “How could you –“ she says, but the pain of Edmund’s injuries is full on him now and he can’t answer.

“I cannot express the depths of my dismay, that a member of my royal party would so lose his control as to injure your royal person. He will be dismissed immediately and sent back to his home in disgrace. I can only hope that this will not jeopardize our visit, for I do so desire to see the marriage of the futures of our glorious nations.”

Peter, crouched by Edmund, briefly turns toward King to squint and frown in the glare of the sun. “Yes, of course. How could your Majesty foresee such an accident? If you will excuse me I must see to my brother.” The King bows and exits, followed by the crowd of Terebinthian onlookers.

-

Peter and Lucy gently lift Edmund by his upper arms and set him on his feet. He looks greenish and holds his left arm close to his chest, leaning on Peter as they walk slowly to a nearby room, Lucy leading with her cordial, where they lay him on a couch.

“I’ll fetch some salve and bandages,” Peter says, striding quickly out.

Lucy immediately sets upon Edmund’s prone form. “Oh, Aslan, Edmund, are you okay? Where are you hurt?” She touches his shoulder, waist, ribs, as if to feel where he needs mending. “Do you need my cordial?”

“No, I’ll be alright.” He pants, wincing. “It’s not that serious. My ankle’s barely sprained; the cut on my stomach is shallow. My arm will need splinting, though.”

“It’s broken?”

“I think only a little. Like a stick of green wood.”

“Edmund, take the cordial.”

“Don’t waste it on something as small as this.”

“Take it!” She is angry and he sees her eyes are wet.

“You’ve seen me in worse shape, Lu. This is barely a scratch.”

She shakes her head. “You’ve been beaten pretty badly. What if the Terebinthians think you’re weak?” She takes out the little bottle and when Edmund starts to protest she glares at him. “This is for Narnia. Don’t deny your people their pride and dignity.”

Edmund is tired and knows when he’s been beaten. Wordlessly, he opens his mouth to let the drop in, feels its warmth slide down his tongue, down his throat, extend throughout his body. He sighs in relief as the pain subsides, winces briefly at the momentary grinding of bone in his forearm before it sets.

“Lucy,” he says in a voice that makes her look up. “Lucy, I don’t think we should trust these Terebinthians.”

“Are you saying it wasn’t an accident? Edmund, how awful – do you really –“

“I don’t know. He seemed very scared and quiet when it was over. Usually regicides go down spewing hate and madness. But that’s not what I meant. You and Susan, but especially you – I see the way you look at the Prince. You’re so young. He’ll break your heart.”

“I’ll fall in love with whomever I want, thank you,” she says. “And you don’t know what you’re saying. He would never take advantage of me.”

“Just, be careful.”

“I’m not a little girl anymore,” she snaps as Peter returns with bandages and salve. “He’s cured. He won’t need those,” she says to him, rising quickly and leaving Edmund and Peter to exchange looks.

“Are you two all right?” Peter says.

-

It’s the earliest morning, when the clouds over the Eastern Sea are burning pink in dawn, and the cove is still dark where the brook meets salt water. Peter knows where to find Susan, bathing in a pool, dress draped over one of the surrounding rocks.

“Am I interrupting your ritual?”

She looks up sharply but when she sees who it is her face relaxes into a smile. “No, I’m just bathing. How is Edmund?”

“Asleep still, thank Aslan. Lucy’s cordial works wonders but he’ll take a lot of rest. I saw your empty bed when I went to check on him; I thought you might be lonely out here.”

She shakes her head. “It’s too beautiful this morning, to be lonely.”

Peter pulls his shirt over his head and pushes his breeches down, slipping into the water that laps his skin just above his hips. It's quite cold, since spring is only just reaching its later stages, and the sun hasn’t yet grown strong enough to warm the creeks and lakes. But Susan likes bathing outdoors whenever the weather permits, and today is a beautiful, beautiful morning.

“We’re up before our guests,” Peter says. “I wonder how long they sleep in Terebinthia.”

“Long, I hope,” she says.

“Does it worry you?”

She doesn’t say anything, at first. She’s crouched down in the water so only her head and pale shoulders poke out. They haven’t yet freckled, but by the end of summer they will, despite how she might worry aloud about the harsh sun on her pale skin.

Peter ducks under and comes up with a gasp from the chill.

“I don’t have any reason to worry about them,” she says.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Has that ever stopped you before?”

Rolling her eyes, she arches her back to soak her hair. The tops of her white breasts curve just above the surface, and Peter is reminded of a painting he saw back in England, of pale nymphs drawing a golden-haired young man into a pool.

“Edmund spoke with me about Prince Talmin,” he says without warning. Susan submerges herself entirely, and Peter follows her under, reaching out to feel her hair suspended in the water, finds her cheekbone, her jaw, and cups her face with his hand.

When she surfaces he does too, still cradling her cheek, their heads alone bobbing above the surface. “What’s there to speak of?” Susan says defensively, frowning at him.

“Susan,” he says softly, “I wish we could talk.”

“We’re talking right now.”

“I’ve seen the way you and Lucy look at him. I’ve heard how Lucy feels. And I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

She stares at him boldly, and he stares back.

“I only want to know what you think,” he says,

“I enjoy his company. That is all.”

“Susan, if you love him, even if I think you’re young, even if Ardamin wants to make some royal treaty, I want you to do what makes you happy. I want you to be happy.” His chest hurts, and these words shouldn’t he bard to say but they are. He sees her swallow hard.

“I don’t know.” She turns her face to kiss his palm and then rises, exiting the pool and picking up her dress. Peter averts his eyes.

-

After a brief shower in the warm afternoon, the rains have moved up along the coast. The air over Cair Paravel is the freshest air Susan can imagine, with the sea at high tide and the breeze coming from over the budding forest. The atmosphere is still and warm, so that the covered space of the throne room is perfect for a festive dance this spring night.

The Terebinthian noblewomen have overcome their initial shyness, and have made a habit of seeking out Peter on these nights with music, asking for dance upon dance, competing among each other for his favor. Susan thinks sourly, _It’s only because he’s High King_ , but she doubts all the young women have overlooked his golden hair and piercing eyes. She never thought so much of political ambition as an aspect of dance until now, when she herself is thinking more of the diplomatic distribution of dances than any real interest in her partners.

Edmund, whose dreamy gaze belies his sharp attention, is well sought-after too, though not to the same degree. It may be a result of his tired state after the cordial's healing, but Susan knows he disappears whenever he can to avoid the bold young women. Peter is hardly more satisfying, though; he is polite but distant, as a High King should be, skillfully balancing his partners, never dwelling longer with one than the other. Susan does not know whether his situation or hers is the more unenviable: he may be confronted with many ambitious social butterflies who he will never see again, but she is confronted with two serious suitors – both of whom she cannot help but seriously consider.

As the night grows long, Edmund, to Susan’s eye, shows his restlessness. Susan knows how he feels uncomfortable at these formal parties, though it only shows to those who know him as well as she does. He’s not as obvious as Lucy, who Susan worries will someday get herself into a situation where her youthful caprice won’t excuse her, if she doesn’t learn to conceal her emotions in front of handsome Princes and foreign dignitaries. Right now, fortunately, the Terebinthians have taken well to her gregarious nature.

“My pardon, your Majesty,” Edmund says as King Ardamin finishes telling Susan of the traditional Terebinthian musical instruments and their similarity to the fauns’ pipes. “May I borrow my sister for a dance? This is a Narnian folk dance I know she likes well.”

“It would be rude of me to keep her from her brother’s affections,” he replies. “Please, Queen Susan, do dance if you so desire.”

“Thank you, dear brother, your Majesty. I would love to.” She rises from her seat and takes Edmund’s extended hand as he leads her into the familiar steps.

“Tired?” she asks him.

“Not particularly,” he says. “Did you want to stay with him? I’m sorry if I took you away too soon.”

“No,” she says. “I do love hearing of Terebinthia, but I can’t help but think about his intentions towards me.”

“Does it bother you?”

“A little. But I shouldn’t be bothered; I have a Queen’s duty to make the diplomatic decision that will best benefit Narnia, do I not?”

“You mean to say that you’re considering his proposal?”

Susan frowns. “He hasn’t yet proposed. But if he does, yes, I will consider it.”

“You’re considering this a decision of state? Have you no desire to marry for love, as any civilized English person would?”

“We’re not in England, Edmund,” she says. He feels the mild sting of the underlying reprimand in her voice. “A Queen does not marry for love.”

“In Narnia, no one would think the worse of you for it.”

“I won’t marry without love,” she says. “I’m still a woman beneath this crown, surely you know that.”

Edmund smiles. “How could I forget?”

They hear Lucy’s laugh in the crowd of dancers, and Susan says, “Lucy is not so far from womanhood herself.”

He knows too well. It has been gradual but strange, to realize that holding your sister close is not like holding a child close anymore. The press of a curving body against his could be a lover’s. And yet she is still Lucy, and they still wrestle together when she is feeling restless, and he has learned the balances of her new body better than her old. Lucy is still his favorite to dance with and to watch dance, his favorite to see smile and to see sleeping.

Again, he says, “How could I forget?”

-

The King dances with Susan, once and again, letting Edmund then Tumnus take her hand, dancing slowly and holding her close, letting Prince Talmin (who bows low) take a lively dance with her while Ardamin talks to the High King. Then, before she can stop to let her feet rest, Peter takes her hand and leads her in a slow waltz. Ardamin takes another dance with Susan, and when a Lord asks for her next dance, he is gracious and understanding as a King must be. Susan can see, though, the flash of impatience in his eyes with the momentary interruption of his plans to woo his bride, but only so briefly that it is replaced the next second by pure benevolence, so that Susan wondered if she saw any reluctance at all.

As Susan and the Lord begin to dance, King Ardamin remarks to Peter, “The Lord Alcasy spends little time dancing with his own wife. One might think he is trying to relive the cavalier days of his youth. And the Queen Susan, need she partake in dance with so many men? Surely they cannot all think to compete equally for her hand.”

Peter does not meet his gaze, looking instead to his sister. “In the joy of dance there emerges her gentle and generous spirit that is so beloved to us all. Dancing, in Narnia if not in Terebinthia, is an art of socialization primarily. It engages her finest qualities. Would you ask me to keep her from it?” Peter does not speak lightly; he truly loves to see her glow, laughing now, her hair loose and swinging. But he knows her finest qualities are not in here – he knows that they look like archery and riding and the pursuit of the hunt and that this ballroom pageantry is only a weak mimicry, a farce of real dancing. He knows she dances best in bare feet beneath the stars and on the grassy knoll with the dryads and naiads and fauns. “In dancing, my royal sister does not think on affairs of marriage as much as many do.”

“As you are her High King and guardian, then, I must address my question of marriage to you. May I ask her hand, so as to unite our glorious countries and make each land greater by such a union?” Peter is taken aback. It shouldn’t surprise him but it does; he had never thought that he would be seen as the deciding party of such an arrangement as his sister’s marriage.

“The Queen Susan is her own sovereign, King Ardamin. I cannot make her decision for her, and however she may decide I will honor it.”

But heis her older brother still, and he knows best when Susan smiles brightest, when she dances most beautifully. The Terebinthian king will never see this – should never, Peter thinks with a twist of jealousy in his chest – but worse, if she cleaves to Ardamin and Terebinthia, Peter fears that he will never see it either.

-

The sun is setting, and the Kings are dancing with their Queens.

Peter plays the flirtatious courtier, smiling and making flourishes as he bows over Susan’s hand. She laughs and covers her smile before laying her hand on his shoulder as he presses her close to him, a large hand on the small of her back. He holds her, and the music starts.

She enjoys the warm, close sensation of dancing with Peter, better than an embrace; it makes her flesh feel sweet with yearning. One might think a Queen’s pleasure comes in dancing with the fine gentlemen who would lavish her with affection, that dancing with the High King is a familial and royal duty, but Susan finds her old ideas of Queens distant and irrelevant in Narnia. She feels safe and happy in Peter’s arms, Edmund’s and Lucy’s too but especially Peter, who has always been taller than her and whose shoulders have grown broad and firm, whose eyes look on her warmly and whose skin is still smooth.

She draws closer to him and rests her cheek against his chest, inhaling the scent of his clothing, a little of the sweat beneath his chin. Sweet. Like home.

“Tired already?” he murmurs in her ear.

“Mm,” she hums contentedly. “No, not really.” Sometimes she just wants to lean on Peter.

Edmund whirls Lucy around, the way he knows she likes to dance. There are few words spoken. In dance they let their bodies hold the conversation: a push away that turns into a pull, a parting and meeting, a tender grasp on her wrist, a fleeting embrace. Parting, passing; parting, rejoining. The longer the separation, Lucy thinks, the sweeter the return.

-

Many songs later, Susan wonders whether it would have been more prudent not to let Tumnus choose the wine. She isn’t sure - this late in the evening it could be fatigue, tipsiness, anything, but to Susan Talmin’s body seems particularly close, his hands particularly warm. His eyes are half-lidded, and the dancing is slow now that sun has set and the stars are visible in the night sky.

“Do your people have stories of constellations?” she asks.

“Come back to Terebinthia with us,” he says, mouth hovering above her ear.

She doesn’t know what to say to this. _Come to Terebinthia?_ But she can’t pretend she hasn’t thought of it, since the first letter arrived. She wants to see the world, this beautiful place that Aslan has given to them, to touch their hands and feet and hearts. Narnia is not the only country here. Aslan lives over the sea in the East; even the borders of Narnia are indefinite through the mountains in the North, the mountains of Archenland, the endless Western Woods.

“Come see the world outside of Narnia. Your eyes light up when I talk of the sea. I can see your desire.”

“Queen Lucy –“

“What of Queen Lucy? I am asking you.”

“What of our duties? As Queen, and you the brother of the King who would ask me to come to Terebinthia on his arm?”

“Has he asked you?”

Susan snips impatiently, “You know as well as I that he has planned to do so since before he stepped foot on Narnian land.”

“Then come,” the Prince says. “Come as a Queen of Narnia, and forget this whole business of love and politics, if only it will bring you.”

The dance ends. She doesn’t know what keeps her from saying yes, but she lets him lead her outside where a tree is growing close to the wall and they can stand unobserved in its shadow.

“You said you wished to travel south. Let me show you the land of my stories.” He holds her hands, and Susan feels him tall and warm, leaning over her. She looks up, and their lips touch, glance off, touch again. His hands move along her arms to cap her shoulders, and he kisses her, smelling of impossible flowers. As soon as it starts, Susan thinks, it’s over: he’s moved away and her body is tingling.

“Think on it,” Talmin says, brushing his lips against her knuckles briefly before backing away, into the crowd of festive dancers.

-

Lucy, small and in her youth, becomes rash after a cup too many of Tumnus’ wine. Susan knows she should have been watching her more closely tonight, but the whirl of partners and diplomatic obligations has kept her away from her little sister until now. Now, Lucy approaches her, red-cheeked and with a look in her eye that can’t bode well. Susan pulls her into a corridor, away from anyone who might hear.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lucy hisses.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, you know exactly. Prince Talmin has danced with you four times tonight, and only twice with me. When you’re there he turns toward you, talks to you. What do you mean by taking him from me?” Lucy has shoved her face close to Susan’s and Susan can see the tears welling, the ugly twist of rage.

“Lucy, please, I’m not taking him from you, I don’t want to dance with him,” and this is true, she can’t stand the trouble of this anymore, she wishes this weren’t so complicated, that her heart weren’t so fickle and she didn’t have to think about marriage as a Queen, as a state. “I can’t say no, though, we’re hostesses and Queens and we can’t be rude. I can’t control what he does.”

“But you don’t think I should love him.”

Susan sighs and pleads, “We’re too young.”

“You mean _me,_ I know you mean it. I am sick of everyone telling me that.”

“Please, be careful –“

Lucy storms off.

For the rest of the night the Prince is not to be found, and Lucy will dance with no one but in a wild whirl among the fauns, light on her feet but intoxicated, nearly stumbling with Tumnus’ strong wine. Edmund lets her fall laughing into his arms as the song ends, leading her away toward her bedroom before she draws too much attention and embarrasses herself in front of the foreign dignitaries.

“Oh, Lucy,” he says sadly, supporting her weight against his full body as he opens the door with his good hand. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

As he wraps his arm around her waist, she mumbles, “You don’t want me to be happy,” and Edmund wants to cry or shout or challenge this fickle Prince to combat, but instead sits with Lucy on the edge of her bed and says, “Come lie down.”

He lies back on the pillows and she curls up against him. “You don’t, I know you don’t” she pouts. Edmund sighs and pulls the blanket up around her.

“I’m afraid, little sister. I don’t want him to hurt you,” he says as she rests her head on his chest.

“He would never hurt me.”

“But if he were to ask, would you leave us for him?” He feels his eyes sting.

“Oh Edmund,” she sighs, and lifts her face to his. Her sweet smell and the scent of faun wine and her lips kiss him, he can feel them firm and soft against his, and he kisses back. He holds her body and moves against her mouth as though he would a woman’s, for she is a woman, a young woman, sweet and warm, soft and pressing.

Soon enough her breathing slows and deepens, and she is asleep on Edmund’s chest. He lies there for a while, but before he falls asleep himself, he gently moves out from under her. He knows the wine will probably keep her well asleep as he lifts her head and places a pillow under it. She hardly stirs when he brushes her hair back from her face, and leaves for his own bed.

-

When the King pulls her aside under the shadow of the same tree, Susan knows what to expect. This whole time she has been playing by the plan and it comes to this, as she knew. But it’s not that at all, it’s not what she thought would happen. She expected have some sort of love for this man and to say yes, or to have no love at all and say no. She did not expect to see him standing there and to think of what he stood for: secrets to be uncovered. A new world, one outside Narnia. She’s surprised to find she wants this, wants new constellations and new trees, new smells of food, new seasons and songs. She wants to bring the distant close, to see real what she’s pictured in her mind while talking to these men and women from a strange land. She wants to find these beautiful stories in their roots and make them her own.

And so she falls headlong into a decision she had been planning so rationally: she lets herself be kissed. She commits and lets herself be kissed by both men who want her womanhood, who want her for their Queen, but the body she wants is the body of the solid land, the kiss she wants the wet kiss of the waves.

He asks her to come as his bride and she has no answer for him. He tells her to think on it and she has no answer, no words for the alien force that pulls her, makes her hollow and hungry for the East.

-

Peter approaches her as she finally emerges from the crowd of mingling partygoers. She sees him bend at the waist and open his mouth as though to ask a dance of her, and Susan can’t take it. “No, no,” she pleads, and turns in flight.

Peter is so surprised he doesn’t know what to do, but as she disappears from view he instinctively pursues her. Upstairs, down a corridor, the sound of her leather shoes thudding on the stone and rugs, he follows until he emerges on a balcony where Susan stands, leaning over the rail.

“What’s wrong?” he says. Her face looks lost.

“Oh, Peter, I’m just far too tired after tonight. I can’t stand the thought of another dance, another go around that crowded room. I can't take another drop of attention.”

Peter crosses the space between them and takes her hands, but she takes them back and turns to face the sea. “There’s something more, isn’t there. Please, don’t hide things from me.”

“I’m not hiding anything. Why are you interrogating me?”

“He asked you, didn’t he?”

Susan is quiet.

“Susan,” Peter says, anguished. “You would leave us?”

“Leave? No. Just, for a little while. Narnia needs to branch out into the world; you heard the King’s talk of markets. We would benefit from royal connections, treaties.”

“We can have those things without you going to Terebinthia. There’s something more.”

“What more is there? I must, Peter. I am for the Southern Sun,” she says, looking out over the water where morning will first glow. The curve of her neck, the set of her mouth, her eyes: Peter’s feels his throat ache with grief.

“We are for Narnia,” he says.

“I will breathe the same air, sit under the same sky. I am still myself; Narnia will follow me wherever I go.” She believes it, too, but when she sees the sea it pulls her in like undertow. Aslan, she thinks. Aslan and a new land in the East.

“How can it? Terebinthia is nothing like Narnia. It has no mountains, it has no snow or dense forests, no pines or blackberries or beavers or badgers, no fauns or centaurs. Isn’t this your home? Did Aslan not make you Queen of this land, and no other? Do you forget your country?”

Susan rounds on him, struck pale with eyes like daggers. “How could you even think such a thing? Have I _ever_ – what have I _ever_ said or done against Aslan? Have I _ever_ done Narnia wrong? I am learning what it means to be Queen. I will serve my country even if it means I must leave.” She storms out before Peter can speak.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Susan is in bed, nearly asleep, when there is a pounding at her door like thunder. Her body jerks, suddenly wide awake, and she flings the blanket away, running to the door.

“What’s wrong?” she calls, and without a thought to the danger she might be in she opens the door.

Peter nearly falls in, and she catches him, feeling something wet on her fingers where she is holding his side. “Peter, what’s happened?”

He grasps her waist, straightens to cup her chin and look into her face. “You’re all right?” he gasps. “Thank Aslan. Thank Aslan you’re safe.” He holds her tightly, kissing her forehead hard, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth.

When she touches the side of his face he hisses, and she realizes he’s hurt. Susan pulls him to her bed where he sits, shivering. Quickly she lights the candle by her bedside, and in the light she gasps to see the blood on her hands.

She turns and sees Peter clutching his side. His nightshirt is smeared with blood – Susan thinks she can see paw prints and handprints both. “Oh, oh god,” she breathes. “How bad are you – I’ll get Lucy –“

“No,” he says. “No. It’s not as bad as it looks – most of it isn’t my blood. I’ve only a shallow cut, and some scratches...” Susan can see the tracks of claw marks on the side of his head, by his ear.

“You’re so pale,” she says, taking his hand from his side. “Have you lost much blood?” There’s a spot the size of her hand there soaked crimson, but the hole in the shirt isn’t big, and she knows Peter’s face when he’s been stabbed and this isn’t it.

“No,” he says as she lifts the hem of his shirt. “Tumnus warned me. He woke me up with his shouts. I’m afraid I don’t know what happened to him – he’s only scratched, gone to search out the castle for more of them – it was two wolves, Susan. We had to fight them off, we had to kill them or else they would have killed us. They weren’t running.”

“Wolves,” she repeats, voice tight. Now she can see, looking closer, the marks of teeth on his wrist, in his side. She touches his marred skin to probe and he hisses in pain, but the wounds don’t look very deep. “I thought we ran them out –“

“There are miles of dark woods for them to hide in. My guess is they came from Northern pine forests, the thick ones we went around on the slopes of the mountains, where it’s still cold this time of year. I don’t think we’ll ever rid ourselves of the dark creatures.”

“But why now?”

“Now? It’s as good a time as any. And we’re preoccupied with the Terebinthians; look how they’ve caught us off guard.” His voice reveals his bitterness and shame, and she puts a soft hand on his shoulder.

“And Tumnus?”

“He will be safe, I’m sure. He knows the passages of this castle as well as anyone, and I left him with a mountain lion guard.”

“Are _we_ safe?”

“I don’t know.” He winces as she dabs the blood from his face.

“If there were more,” she says, fetching rags from a basket in the corner, “wouldn’t they have run? Since they fought to the death they knew this was their only opportunity and they had to take it.” Susan shudders at the thought.

She wraps his side well enough to stem the sluggish flow of blood, and stops the bleeding from the shallow cuts on his face. The skin on his lower back is scratched as well, and as she dabs ointment on it Peter hisses but doesn’t move away. She finds herself touching him consciously, running her hand over his smooth bare shoulder blades, and he shivers. When she is finished bandaging him, she pulls a blanket around him, suppressing the swell of panic she feels rising inside her chest . What if he were killed? What if he were near death here and she could not save him? Her hands are shaking and Peter sees, holds them in his.

“I’m alive, Susan. We’re all right. Don’t be afraid.” She feels the warmth and roughness of his hands around hers, and thinks of all the works of days those hands have touched and molded, the parts of Narnia they have formed and the parts of Narnia that have formed them. Peter is no soft-handed monarch who rules from his castle. She wonders if the Terebinthian King also browns in the summer, if Prince Talmin would be seen walking among the farmers of the fields, if either of them would have built a bridge or mended a beaver’s dam or climbed a mountain, if they would come home at night and touch the stones of Cair Paravel with tenderness. But what else, what else? What ships do they sail, what streets do they walk, what gardens do they kneel in? Susan believes in the body of the land. She believes in the sensuous curving hills, the rocks that are the earth’s bones, the trickles and streams and rivers of lifeblood water, and knows that the land has this body wherever she goes. Susan believes in the sea, that endless stretch, that womb of life that cradles her. Some days, she thinks, looking away from Peter’s torn skin and dark eyes to the paling sky in the east, she would like to climb into it and sleep forever.

She stands and walks to the window when she hears Edmund’s shout.

Peter moves quickly to the door and opens it to let their brother in. “Are you hurt?" he asks. "Are you in danger?”

Edmund is pale but unharmed, and his eyes are wide in panic. “Lucy’s gone,” he says. “They’ve taken her.”

-

Susan says, “We must search the woods” at the same time Peter says, “There must have been more –“

“Wait, the woods?” Edmund interrupts. “Why would the Terebinthians –“

“The _Terebinthians?_ ” Peter shouts.

Biting his lips, Edmund hands Susan a scrap of paper with a note written on it with Ardamin's insignia. It is addressed to her.

“ _Your sister is safe; you will recover her if you meet my conditions. Come to the shore at noon. Bring no one else or her life is forfeit._ Aslan’s mane,” Susan whispers. “Is she really unharmed? Were there any signs of struggle? Was this in her room?”

“On her bed. I went, to check on her; on my way I saw Tumnus and he told me you had been attacked, Peter.”

“Dark Narnians.” Then the horrible connection dawns upon him, and his eyes widen. “The Terebinthians must have used them...”

“She was in a bad way last night, probably dead asleep when they took her.” Edmund’s voice cracks. “There was no blood, thank Aslan, but the covers were thrown every which way. We have to find her.” He has never looked so livid.

Peter says, “If they had Narnian help, she could be anywhere, hidden away. But the Terebinthians want something out of this. They’re not looking to overthrow us; if they had, they would have attacked us all in our sleep. Not only me.”

“It’s me,” Susan says, voice hollow. Edmund looks at her sharply, Peter with horror. “Of course it’s me. What else has he been pursuing from the start?”

Peter bites his lip; Edmund is pacing, eyes on the floor or on the pale sky in the window. He seems distant. She wants to reach out to him but she feels frozen, walled off. Peter doesn't meet her gaze.

“I have to go,” she says. “I have to go alone.”

Her brothers protest, but she silences them with a look. “Don’t you understand? This is my fault. I should have said no in the first place, I should have told him I was too young, that I needed to stay here, that I was engaged already, anything. Now he thinks he can have me. And Lucy, poor Lucy, was drawn in too by the Prince. It was all a plan, it must have been, to distract us and divide us and then whether I said yes or not they would have one of us. They would have Narnia. It makes so much awful sense.”

Edmund shakes his head miserably. “I should have known. I was suspicious from the first, I knew things were going to go wrong. We should have guarded her more closely. I should have protected her.” But Susan has a point, and Lucy too was willingly blinded – how foolish these Terebinthians had made them! How blinded he was by simple jealousy! “You can’t go to Ardamin alone,” he objects. “We’ll go too.”

“No,” Peter says, and Edmund gapes at him. “Susan must follow Ardamin's instructions – the Terebinthians won't hurt her if Ardamin is intent on marriage. But they won’t release Lucy yet, not until the marriage is final. We’ll find her.” Peter is pale as death underneath the red wounds on his face. His still expression belies the terrible look in his eye, cutting short any protest Edmund could have thought to make. He has the wild look, Susan thinks, of one who has escaped death only to turn back to it readily.

-

Lucy’s eyes aren’t yet open when she feels her pounding headache. She curses the wine, and feels her bed roll beneath her.

But when she reaches an arm out to lift herself up, she realizes she isn’t in her bed at all, but a scratchy blanket on a damp wooden floor. This is not her room. Her room has windows that the moonlight comes through, and dry stone floors, but this room is pitch black, so dark she can’t even see how big it is. This isn’t anywhere she’s ever been before. She still feels the ground moving, though, which doesn’t make sense because she can’t still be drunk.

Without warning a door opens a crack, and in the weak glow of a candle Lucy can see that the walls are also wooden. Judging by the utter lack of stone around her, she doesn’t think she’s in Cair Paravel at all. She shivers, not just with cold but with fear.

Prince Talmin enters her small cell, and Lucy’s heart nearly stops.

“Where am I?” she cries. “Have you come to help me out?”

He looks at her, stricken. But he does not move toward her.

“Prince Talmin,” she says, “what on Aslan’s green earth is happening? I demand an explanation.”

“Your Majesty is being held temporarily. A situation has arisen.”

“Let me speak to my brothers and sisters.”

“We cannot reach them.”

Lucy looks at his face and knows what he says to be a lie.

“Traitor!” she shouts.

He shakes his head and looks at her pleadingly. “Queen Lucy, you can’t understand how much I wish this weren’t happening. I must ask you to write to your brother the High King asking him to abdicate the throne to Queen Susan. You must do this, for your own good.” He holds out to her a quill, bottle of ink, and piece of parchment. Lucy ignores it and stares at him.

“Abdicate? But she’s already Queen of Narnia.”

“She must have supreme sovereignty.”

Lucy bristles. “We rule together.”

“Then all of you must abdicate, or King Ardamin will make sure you no longer pose a threat to his imminent rule of Narnia.”

“Do you mean to say that Susan has accepted his offer of marriage? She can’t know about this!”

The Prince shakes his head slowly. “Majesty, I beg you: write your brother. If you cooperate it will give me time to find you a way out of here, before the King decides that hurting you will be a more effective means of achieving his ends.”

“You’re threatening a sovereign queen of Narnia, _Prince_ Talmin.”

“Please, Majesty, believe me that I wish you no harm. Think rationally: save yourself and your brothers. Ask them to abdicate.” He seems small before her, in the dark cell. Lucy had not realized until now how he demurred so, how much she resembled a fox with his tail between his legs.

“Your condescension stinks.” She stands to spit at his feet and looks him in the eye. “Do you think the Kings and Queens of Narnia weak? Do you think my brothers won’t find me? Do you think they won’t know? Aslan’s will guides them! We have the eyes, the ears, the hands and paws and hooves of every Narnian. Do not underestimate us.”

-

Just after dawn, Tumnus finds the Kings and Queen in Susan’s quarters with his news.

“Your Majesties, King Ardamin and the Prince are gone from Cair Paravel, along with all their belongings.”

When they barely respond but to look at him, he feels something heavy in his stomach. “Where is Lucy?” he asks.

“Are their ships gone, too?” Peter asks.

“Yes. Where is she?”

Susan looks down, Peter and Edmund exchange glances. “Kidnapped,” Peter says, “for the ransom of Susan’s hand. But we’re going to get her back. Are the dolphins still in the bay?”

“Yes,” says Tumnus. “But I don’t –“

“They’ve taken her to their ships,” Peter says. “Stay with Susan. Edmund and I are going to the caves.”

-

Peter and Edmund emerge, torches held above their heads, from the steep and winding stairs of Cair Paravel’s hidden passage to the caves beneath the cliffs. Peter found it in their first few months, an inconspicuous door hidden behind a tapestry in the corridor off his room. Since then he has found others, and though his findings have slowed he doesn’t doubt that there are still more that Aslan, or the Cair itself, has chosen to keep hidden for the time being.

The Kings stand on a sloping ledge that meets the water about fifteen feet from the stairs’ end. The cave is oddly quiet, only the soft slap of the water lapping at the stone.

“It’s high tide,” Edmund says. “The opening is blocked. How will we get out?”

Peter doesn’t seem concerned. “Hang on,” he says, extinguishing his torch in the water. “I have to summon help.”

Edmund looks puzzled but sets his torch on the stone and follows Peter into the ocean. Peter is waist-high when he turns to Edmund and says, “Hold the back of my shirt, and don’t let go, please. I’m going to have to submerge myself entirely.”

Edmund does as he is told, and Peter takes a breath before he slips in, leaving no inch of his body above water. He gives a long, loud cry, and from above the water Edmund can hardly make out what he’s saying, but he’s certain it couldn’t be anything but _Narnia_. He feels a pulling at his bones like a deep ache, a thorough itch he can’t scratch.

Peter emerges, gasping with the cold. “It might take a while,” he says. “Sound travels more slowly through water, but they will hear me.”

Edmund shivers. “Something tells me every Narnian will have heard you.”

“All those in the sea, at least.”

It is only a few minutes before the bottlenose dolphins come in their pod, one by one after another breaching the water of the cave.

“High King,” the first trills, “what drives you to call us to this place?”

“Dolphins, my friends,” Peter says solemnly, “the Queen Lucy has been kidnapped.”

“Never the Valiant!” A chorus of angry whistles breaks out.

“It was an act of treachery, one that must be avenged,” Edmund says. “The Terebinthians have taken her back to their ships. Will you bring us to her?”

The dolphins nod emphatically, their wet heads gleaming in the orange torchlight. “I am Kirseet. If it please you I will bear you, High King” says the first. “Taka, will you bear the King Edmund?”

“If his Majesty wishes, gladly.” Edmund bows from the waist, and Taka bobs deeply, the closest thing Edmund can imagine to a dolphin’s bow.

“If you will take us beyond the cliffs, to the South, we will be grateful to you.”

“Without delay.” Peter inclines his head, and Kirseet whistles. The brothers take hold of the dolphins’ dorsal fins.

“Breathe deeply, your Majesties.” They do, and the dolphins submerge, carrying them below the water, deep enough that Edmund’s ears ache dreadfully until he feels the dolphins turn upwards and can see light through his eyelids. They surface in the bright sun, and the Kings barely have time to catch their breath before Kirseet and Taka lunge onward, swimming swiftly toward the Terebinthian ships.

-

Susan goes down to the beach at noon, her shadow small beneath her feet. Alone, she almost feels as though she is out for a walk on the warm sand and nothing more, the familiar rasp of sea-grass against her ankles, slipping a little with each step in the sand.

But she is not alone: her feet take her to the water’s edge where four sailors stand, their small boat tied to a rock on the shore. They look swarthy and unpleasant, and Susan can’t help but feel fear as she remembers Tumnus’ warning: _You will be alone with Terebinthian men. You will be surrendering your control to the rank and file of a foreign country. You may retain your dignity as a woman, since they may not mean you harm and if they do you can defend yourself, but your dignity as a Queen?_

They look up as she nears. Two men walk toward her, and she keeps her expression icy.

“Alone and unarmed?” the second says.

“Alone, at least,” says the first. “That’s good, good for us.” He leers. Susan says nothing.

“Come on, then,” he says, and grabs her upper arm. She wrenches away and he laughs, surprised, and seizes it harder still.

Suddenly the man close behind him screams and drops, two arrows sprouting in his chest.

The sailor grabbing her soldier turns; Susan takes her opportunity and knees him in the groin. He falls with a grunt, and as she steps away an arrow sticks in his back.

 _Thank you, Aslan, for Tumnus’ foresight,_ Susan thinks to herself. _And thank you for my archers._ The sailor by the boat is running toward her, shield in front of him. He doesn’t have his sword drawn, and Susan is grateful for his mistake. She draws her dagger and darts to his right. As she reaches him he jerks the shield sideways, the edge of it splitting her lip and cutting her gums. She yells in pain, but doesn’t falter as she ducks to shove the knife beneath his ribs, twisting viciously.

Shuddering and holding up her sleeve to her bleeding mouth, Susan gives the men’s struggling forms a wide berth. She climbs in the boat, unties the rope, and starts to row. She paces herself. It wouldn’t do to arrive out of breath.

-

“I have come to negotiate the return of my sister,” Susan calls as she nears the Terebinthian flagship. Someone throws her a rope and she pulls herself closer to the side, where a rope ladder is dangling there for her. She ties the rope to the prow of the boat and climbs the ladder herself instead of waiting to be pulled up.

“Queen Susan,” the King says as her head clears the railing, “where are my men?”

“You told me to come alone.” She swings her legs over the side onto the deck, and she is immediately seized by guards. “Release me,” she snaps at the King.

“You have had my men killed. How can I not think that you might do something else rash in your distress? Take her to the quarters that have been prepared,” he says to the men who hold her. “There will be water there for you to wash the blood from yourself.”

She struggles a little but knows it will do no good as the guards lead her away.

“Wait,” King Ardamin calls back. “Search her for weapons.”

Susan swears under her breath. They find the daggers strapped to the insides of her wrists, and the one at the small of her back. At least she is well-trained enough not to be dependent on them.

-

“How are we supposed to know which one she’s being kept in?”

Peter makes a hushing noise. “I need to think,” he says.

“There’s nothing to think about!” Edmund whispers viciously. They are close to the ships, close enough that they don’t want to risk being heard. “Face it, Peter, we don’t have a clue. The only one that stands out as more well-guarded is Ardamin’s flagship.”

“That’s probably because he and Talmin are on it.”

“I think it’s our best chance.”

“You can’t be serious. Attack the most heavily-guarded ship? We have no real evidence that Lucy is there, and even if she were there's only the two of us to rescue her. We would be captured or killed immediately.”

“So should we board another and not find her, then another, until they notice and capture or kill us then? We go for the flagship or nothing.”

“We’ll still be outnumbered.”

“Outnumbered. We’re Kings of Narnia, how can we be outnumbered?” Edmund laughs bitterly, then pauses and his expression changes. “How can we be? Peter, do you remember the birds on the cliffs? Are they within hearing range?”

Peter looks at him. “Does it matter?” He grins.

“How will your Majesties board the ship?” asks Kirseet.

Edmund frowns. “Will you take us right up against her side, so they’ll only be able to see us if they look straight down over it?”

The dolphins nod, and the Kings hold their breaths as they slip beneath the water, hidden until they surface to nudge up against the ship's hull.

“Do you see anything?” Edmund says.

“No. Kirseet, will you carry me to port side?” They duck under and Edmund waits, shivering in the cold sea.

Peter is grinning when they reemerge. “There’s a rope ladder someone left hanging all the way into the water.”

“Aslan be praised,” Edmund says.

-

“I’m very sorry about your injuries, my Queen,” King Ardamin says. “But you shouldn’t have attacked my guard. They were there for your protection.”

She glares at him unabashedly. “Capture is not protection.”

“Again, I’m truly sorry, but this is only temporary. It displeases me to see you so unhappy. I cannot believe that you have no desire to be Queen in Terebinthia. I have seen your face glow at hearing the accounts of our land. I am offering you silks and glass from Calormen, exotic fruit from the scattered isles, Archenland’s most beautiful jewels, a garden of our hibiscus. I am offering you reign over a castle of your own, a window to the Far Eastern Sea.”

“Your offer is generous but you have done my family a grave ill. Let me see my sister.”

“Be reasonable, your Majesty. You understand that I cannot let you see your sister until you give me your response.” He sighs. “This has been a great trial to me. You and your siblings have been most obstinate; see what extreme measures I have had to resort to? The High King would not give me your hand; I have seen the jealousy in his eyes. So I have simplified the situation. Simply say you will marry me and I will take you from here.”

“And you’ll return Lucy to us?” Susan's mind is whirling. If Lucy is returned, they will all return to Narnia to gather their army. They have vanquished an unrightful ruler before, and she was far more dangerous than this one.

“She will be safe as a member of the Terebinthian royal family. I am simply making this decision easier for you, my Queen.”

Susan can suddenly see it clearly, as though laid before her eyes. He has no intention of letting either of them leave now. Lucy is not being held for ransom, the price of exchange for Susan’s hand; she is a prisoner to hang over their heads while the Terebinthian rules Narnia as Susan’s husband. Peter and Edmund he will have imprisoned or killed if they do not acquiesce.

Susan spits blood at his feet. “I’m not your Queen.” She stands, the chair knocking against the wall of the cabin as she shoves it behind her.

“I know you will enjoy my country. Narnia is a cold place, wild and rough; you are too gentle and tender for such a land. Your woman’s curves are made for cushions, not the hard stones of that wilderness.” He stands and advances on her, a look in his eye that sickens Susan and stirs her rage.

She tries to retreat but the backs of her knees knock against the chair, which is up against the wall, and Susan realizes she is trapped. She quickly reaches beneath her skirts to draw a knife from where it was hidden against the inside of her leg, where the guards would not have looked. Not in front of the King.

Ardamin barely has time to register what she's done before the side of his head is burning, and he screams in pain. Susan has sliced his ear clean off.

-

“Narnia, to me!” Edmund cries to the pale faces of the cliffs. His voice makes Peter’s ears ache strangely, but he does not flinch as he trades blows with a Terebinthian guard. He hopes desperately that this will work.

And surely, as Peter swiftly dodges a blow to thrust his sword into the man's stomach, he sees a wave of shadow cross the deck of the ship, hears a great flapping of wings and the cries of gulls, cormorants, petrels, all the birds of the sea, and knows what seemed like a gamble was all along a certainty. When called, Narnia answers, as if the land were an extension of their bodies and all they had to do was flex the muscle for the country to rise to glorious action.

The birds wheel and dive, aiming for the men’s faces.

-

When Peter and Edmund find the guard with the keys, he is terrified and bleeding from many small beak-wounds. He offers them up freely and Peter hands the ring to Edmund.

“Your weapon, too,” and the guard shakily hands over a sturdy axe.

“Where are you going?” Edmund asks.

“To find Susan. You get Lucy out. I’ll manage,” Peter says, hefting the axe.

Edmund climbs down the ladder into the darkness below deck, trying not to slip on the narrow rungs. When he reaches the bottom he calls back up to Peter that the coast is clear, and Peter leaves. Edmund looks around for any sign of Lucy, but he is in a bare corridor, lined with solid wooden doors.

“Lucy,” he calls quietly. He would rather not find himself face to face with any Terebinthian guards. “Lucy, it’s me.” No one answers.

He calls louder, and that’s when he hears footsteps on the ladder.

Edmund whirls and draws his dagger. A man drops to the ground from a height, and it takes not a second after Edmund recognizes his face in the patch of moonlight before he is upon the Prince, shoving him against the side of the ship, knife pressed against his throat.

“Please!” the Prince pants. “I’ve come to help!”

“Why should I listen? You Terebinthians have given us no reason to trust you.” A drop of blood trickles down the Prince’s neck.

“I can tell you where Lucy is.”

Edmund lets up on the knife's pressure just enough to stop it from cutting any further.

“I have nothing to do with this, I swear. Diplomatic pressure is one thing, but I could never condone kidnapping a maid. The king will stop at nothing to have your sister’s hand; if I had protested, he would have had me killed. He’s mad, power-hungry and jealous.”

“You knew. You betrayed her trust.”

“I only knew when it was already too late.”

“Tell me where she is.”

“Let me go.”

“First tell me.”

The prince swallows and Edmund’s blade scrapes his Adam’s apple. “Two doors to my left. They’ve made the cell soundproof. Do you have the key?”

“Yes. Come with me.”

The Prince goes with Edmund’s dagger poking his side. Edmund hands him the keys and tells him to open the cell. The Prince puts the key in the lock, turns it, and the door swings open. Edmund can’t see around the taller man, but he hears Lucy’s voice: “You! Have you come again to persuade me to give in? It’ll never –“

Edmund shoves the backs of the Prince’s legs and forces him to his knees. Lucy is crouched on all fours, her back to the corner of the cell, dark smudges under her eyes.

“Edmund!” she cries.

“Will you believe that I would never harm her?” the Prince says. Edmund takes the keys from him.

“There are hordes of Narnians on the shore and in the sea waiting for the return of their King and Queen. If we are harmed, if we are detained, by sunset they will destroy your entire fleet. So go, Prince, with my thanks, but also with this warning: take care for your own life and the lives of your men. Let us go freely. Tell your brother that Narnia will never suffer a foreign king.”

“I swear by all the sea,” says the Prince.

“Swear by Aslan.”

“Aslan in the East,” he says, touching his forehead in a sign of reverence.

“Now go.” The Prince climbs to his feet and exits, Edmund’s knife never leaving his side until he is through the doorway.

Lucy bursts into tears and Edmund falls to his knees. She throws herself into his arms and he makes comforting noises into her hair.

“I knew you would come,” she says. “I told them you would.”

-

Susan sticks her knife in the web of muscle between Ardamin's right arm and chest and wrenches the blade up and in with all her strength. The King roars and knocks her back against the wall before she can stab him again. He crouches, arm bleeding and dangling useless by his side. She steadies herself and widens her stance, livid and pale. The King is snarling but still in too much physical shock to move. Faintly she hears a loud banging noise.

Reaching to the sheath at his side, Ardamin pulls out his own knife – stupid, she should have taken it from the first – and holds it unsteadily with his left hand. He’s not as in practice as she, but his sheer size gives him an advantage, and she is cornered. She waits there, never breaking her gaze. It’s clear that he would advance but for the knife she’s holding two-handed before her. She realizes faintly that the awful crashing is someone battering down the cabin door, and hopes with every ounce her being, _Peter, Peter, please let it be Peter,_ but she can’t find a voice to shout with.

The King lunges, every detail of his movement clear to her. She does not let herself close her eyes or drop her blade, and the door breaks open with a splintering sound.

Susan collapses back against the wall as Peter leaps to tackle the King, knocking him to the floor. There is a terrible noise as Peter brings his axe to bear down on the back of Ardamin’s neck. Blood flows everywhere but Susan still cannot close her eyes.

“Susan,” she hears, “Susan,” and her shoulders lurch and she heaves but there’s nothing in her stomach. It’s been almost a day since she last ate.

She feels Peter with his hands in her hair and she straightens up when her dry heaves are finished. She wipes her mouth pointlessly and Peter is there holding her head between his hands, lifting her face, kissing her fully. She can taste the sea-salt on his lips, licks them, her body sweet with relief and yearning. Her hands grasp at his shoulders and she buries her fingers in his hair, never more relieved to touch someone in her life, never gladder to feel a body pressed against hers.

“Peter,” she says, and cries, and buries her face in his chest. He kisses her head and she feels his fingers grasping at her back as though he is finally holding something he had forgotten, or left, and is finally promising her with his hands, _Never again._

-

On deck, bloodied and torn, the Kings and Queens of Narnia stand tall as Prince - now King Talmin, Susan realizes - bows deeply before kissing the hand of each.

“Forgive me, but I must hurry home to Terebinthia. The King’s passing will have put the place in an uproar. Our generals may want to declare war, but it won’t happen, I promise; his actions were indefensible.”

Peter thanks him in fewer words, but not without sincerity.

“Queen Lucy,” he says, “I could not be any sorrier for what has happened to you. If you could find it in your heart to forgive me...”

She looks at him sadly and says, “You are pardoned, King Talmin. We understand you were not culpable for Ardamin’s actions.”

Edmund is stony-faced and says, “We thank you for your aid in the recovery of our royal sister.” Talmin answers with another bow.

Edmund does not say what he wants to: that he holds Talmin entirely culpable, guilty of passivity. He might claim that his hands were tied but Edmund would not believe him truly incapable of action unless he saw the man bound hand and foot. Edmund would have demanded that he take up the sword, literally or figuratively, for he knows that to excuse oneself from righteous action is to fall into the sin of selfishness. If you can respond, Edmund thinks, you are responsible. If you live in the world you are of the world, you cannot separate yourself from the world, and so you cannot claim innocence for inaction. The world will turn on you until you face yourself.

-

Late that night when Peter is in bed, Susan enters his room without a candle.

He bolts upright when he realizes he isn’t alone.

“It’s only me,” she says. He relaxes at the sound of her voice.

“What is it?”

She sits on the side of his bed, and looks like the small girl she hasn’t been for a long time. “Will you tell me a story?”

Peter laughs but it sounds a little like a sob. He pulls back the covers and she crawls over and climbs in next to him. They curl around each other, holding each other close.

“I want,” he says, “I want to tell you a Narnian story. A story that belongs to us. Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy...”

“I know how it ends,” she says. “When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone sits at Cair Paravel in throne, the evil time will be over and done. And what then? I don’t know how to live without another story, Peter.” Her eyes are wet.

Quietly he kisses the tears that gather in the corners and on the ends of her lashes. “That’s not an end at all. Look at us, here, Kings and Queens in Narnia. We didn’t fall by accident into this story; it pulled us in and we became it. We reside in Narnia and Narnia resides in us – our minds and the memories of our bodies and our language. Once a King or Queen in Narnia...”

“Always a King or Queen.”


End file.
